Writings and Ramblings

Posts

I didn't know there was a word for the space between an ending and beginning, but I have felt the realness of it. I first heard the term "liminal space" in church this past Sunday, and today it showed up on a blog that is delivered to my inbox. It describes perfectly, the revolving transitions that my family has experienced for nearly the past three years.

The theologian, Rohr describes it as this, "where we are betwixt and between the familiar and the completely unknown. There alone is our old world left behind, while we are not yet sure of the new existence.That's a good space where genuine newness can begin. Get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible...This is the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed. If we don't encounter liminal space in our lives, we start idealizing normalcy. The threshold is God's waiting room. Here we are taught openness and patience as we come t…

Several years ago my sister gave me a hoodie for Christmas. Every fall as the weather turned colder, it would be my first choice top to wear. It fit me just right, and had all of the coziness that the season required. It became an outward symbol of an inward comfort. It belonged to me, and I belonged in it.

When we packed our things to move to Nicaragua, that black sweatshirt was left hanging in the closet. I didn't know if I'd ever wear it again, but I wasn't ready to give it up completely.

Some weeks ago, the cold air settled in and the trees began to give up their leaves. I looked through the few warm clothes that I had saved, and found that treasured, faded, worn-out shirt. The memories of many seasons passed came to mind as I pulled it over my head. I straightened out the arms, and settled it over my waist as I looked at myself in the mirror. It fit me exactly the same.

As the day moved on, I realized that it wasn't as cozy as I remember. The cold air bl…

I stepped off the plane and into the waiting arms of Familiarity. She pulled me closer, and held me tight like an old friend. I relaxed in her embrace as I heard her whisper, "I know who you are, and I've missed you." It had been a long time since I felt known and accepted by my surroundings, and it felt good. I wondered though if she could see the parts of me that went missing; broken off and left behind. I've not had the clarity of mind to take inventory, but I feel the loss.

It has been six weeks since our return to the United States. I was warned of reverse culture shock, but after the first few days of delightful air conditioning and easy access to my favorite foods, I believed a year away wasn't long enough to affect me. But days passed, along with the initial surge of busyness, and I watched how the whole world could grow quiet enough for my heart to cry, "I'm completely lost."

I've been dreading the day when the knowledge would be common. When everyone knows of our return, that means it is real, and I can no longer ignore the pain of it.

I've been feeling my own loss of understanding, my own questions marching through my mind after the lights have gone quiet, and the only sound is the whir of a fan. My eyes adjust to the purple shadows, but my heart has no vision for the unseen. I can't touch the other side of this. In some ways, perhaps many, I am afraid to.

We didn't know how long we would stay, and that's the truest thing I can remember before our move, except for knowing without a doubt that we were to go. I've never been so sure, and that made the decision to sell our life a simple one. I refuse to say it was easy, because the reality of those moments left me with a dull ache. I see how things are just things, but I had wrapped my dreams around them and they had become a part of who I was. Who I am? Perhaps that's w…

Nearly three years ago we packed our bags and boarded a plane headed to Nicaragua
with our two oldest children. We could not have known that the souvenirs we carefully
packed would be in the company of so many hopes and dreams that we brought back with
us. We had come to serve this land full of serene lakes and majestic volcanoes, but we
were the ones who received the greater blessing. We were the ones who were changed
by the gospel.

Outside are the sounds of tropical birds singing in the ever present sun. The palm trees
are waving against the bright sky through a gentle breeze, but the day promises to warm
up to a steady heat that has everyone seeking shade. The dust blows and covers the
world here with a fine layer of grit, and we pray for rain.

We call Nicaragua our home, but the truth remains that we are only passing through.
When God called us to this beautiful country, we knew not the length of our leaving. So we
sold our life in Cincinnati, and cut the strings that might pull u…

The memory remains clear. I was sitting on the elevated table covered with a sheet of thin, crinkly paper. The man in the white coat, M.D. credentials embroidered in blue, stood in front of me. His words left my anger boiling just below the surface. I could feel the heat flash into my face. The brimming tears blurred my vision before spilling onto my cheeks. I regretted how they betrayed my sense of control. My hands clenched the edges of the table beneath me. My jaw was set.

He had told me it was too late in the pregnancy to turn the baby. He was breech, and the safest way to deliver a past-due baby was by C-section. I was given no other option. I would have to take the scar; a scar I would wear forever because of a mistake, an oversight, a miscalculation. I hated my lack of power. I hated that my choice was taken.

All of my planning and dreaming of bringing a child into this world under my strength and endurance vanished. I see my selfishness now, but in that moment, t…

I remember the loss, and the dark ache that swallowed me. Fifteen years have been lived since then, but the thought of surviving those moments burn in my throat even now. Grief has a way of lingering.

We named her Mathia, God's gift. God's gift that we never held, never rocked to sleep, never even saw. On occasion my children mention her name, and we dream about the role she would have played in our family. She is a part of my story, a shade of who I am. She softened me to suffering, and gently gifted me with the understanding of loss.

I wonder of God's grace in those moments. In that place of darkness, he was there reminding me of his goodness. In the depths of my sorrow he gave me a song of worship. And maybe that is why the words of Job sink so deeply into my heart, "The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." The beauty of worship in the moment of loss and difficulty astounds me. It points to the belief that even i…